Category Archives: Manly Man Manifesto

“Facials are for fags,” they say. “Only fruitcakes go for diamond peels.”

And so it goes, in this world of swagger and machismo.

Words like luminous, velvet-smooth, sun-kissed are not supposed to be associated with Real Manly Men of the Schwarzenegger mold. Rugged, chiseled, wind-torn – now those are the words socially mandated for use in the tomes of How Real Men Should Be, and a pox be upon the man who has the misfortune to be discovered by his fellows with vitamin-enriched cucumbers nestled delicately on his eyes, and his feet gently marinating in a peppermint-jasmine foot spa.

So what is it, therefore, that makes a Real Man?

“He must subject himself to trials and tortures,” the classical machismophiles may say.“He must willingly subject himself to pain and suffering, and utter not whimpers but rather manly roars, congruent to those of a cow besotted with intestinal gas.”

To that, I will agree, and it is for that reason that I must say – getting my first ever facial and diamond peel was quite possibly the manliest thing I have ever done in all my life.

If in medieval times, men marched proudly into war to face down dark goblins and be gored through by rusted battle-spears, then the modern male equivalent is the dermatologist’s office. But today’s man faces down a different sort of foe; it is blackheads that besiege him, and it is gleaming silver blackhead removers that thirst vilely for his squeals of pain.

I will be honest in saying that the fear I felt as I stepped into Dermstrata’s Greenbelt branch was fathoms deeper than any I had ever felt before; not even a 700-lb load on the Gold’s Gym leg-press had ever jellied my legs in the manner that the dermatologist did. And for all the distinctly manly pains I have gone through in my life – circumcision, a muscle-tear, an attack of gout brought on by a stray over-indulgence in an incredibly manly plate of roast pork belly – nothing compares to the poking and prodding that my deceptively-harmless facial care specialist submitted me to.

“Zarah,” I remember moaning softly to my girlfriend, as glistening steel implements dug, scraped, and squeezed viciously at my ruggedly handsome face that some have said reminds them of a young Marlon Brando from a certain angle and distance*, “I think I’m going to cry.”

And it was true. Every quick jab, poke, thrust at my nose felt like a broadsword through my intestines. Over the course of the hour-long session, I truly, sincerely wanted to curl into a fetal ball and weep myself silently to sleep. As lasers screeched over my ravaged countenance, I felt instead like the White House being blasted by an extra-planetary laser in the movie Independence Day. As the finely-ground diamond peel Blast-O-Master 3000 whirred dangerously over my studly cheeks, visions of slaughterhouse accidents danced manically before my tear-bleared eyes.

“Sir, would you like to see your extracted blackheads?” the attendant murmured.

“By Odin, god of all Manly Men and official sponsor of Mr. Olympia 2015, yes!” I roared, eager to see the carnage and entrails I was sure had been spilled over the course of the last hour.

Before me was a saucer lined artfully with tissue paper. “Are those sesame seeds?” my mind wondered disbelievingly, staring at its contents.

“Your blackheads, sir,” the attendant whispered, seemingly reading my thoughts. “They’re much larger below than what you see on the surface. Like icebergs.”

“Icebergs,” I parroted back numbly. I literally melted back into a rubbery heap on the trolley. My stomach was churning. I had imagined blackheads to be diminutive little buds, perhaps suggestive of the short-shorn hair you find on your razor after your morning shave. I had not anticipated that they would be of such beastly proportions, roughly the size of sesame seeds, a sickly yellow-green in color, and ever-so-slightly crusty.

“Icebergs,” I whimpered one more time. “Like the ones that sank the Titanic! And killed Leonardo DiCaprio!”

I was catatonic. Nauseated. In shock.

But forty-eight hours later, I find myself radiating like a freshly-bloomed Ecuadorian rose. My skin feels silky-soft, buttercream-smooth. On my nose, where I used to have distressing little black dots, there is now only a pinkish-white luminescence. I feel dashing, debonaire, handsome even.

Artist's rendition of the New & Improved MDJ Superstar

I realize now, that like a sword that must be forged in the hottest of fires and folded in on itself over and over again to achieve its most glorious, finely-honed potential, so too must a man subject himself to the scourges and suffering of a regular facial to reach the mythical pinnacle of studliness. It’s an experience that challenges a man to question his capacity for courage, his tolerance for pain, his ability to soar above the sensation of the now.

People say I seem much kinder these days, more gentle and refined. An air of serenity seems to waft discreetly from my pores, and I glow with the radiance of a summer sun. “Have you found God?” they ask, “or perhaps your higher calling?”

“No,” I say, a beatific grin dancing on the edges of my lips. “I had a facial.”

* – When seen from behind at a distance of 2-kilometers on a slightly overcast day.

Like this:

This Christmas, we De Joya males, as strapping, cavalier, and hunky as we are – true blueprints for the prototypical Manly Man – discovered a gentlemanly new way to settle our disputes.

Four Nerf N-Strike Maverick pistols. One for the each of us. Each one a deadly hunk of finely-tooled canary-yellow plastic primed and ready to unleash a vicious onslaught of foam-rubber upon unsuspecting passers-by.

These Nerf guns are devastating pieces of high-tech space-age technology made available only to the finest specimens of Manly Men. Only the most physically-gifted can bear them; only those with the true soul of hunter may wield their awesome destructive might.

And how do we, the Manly De Joya Men, apply such terrifying armaments of devastating firepower?

Watch and learn.

This video also proves there is no such thing as the law of averages. Michael won four straight times!

In the words of The Sicilian from The Princess Bride: “Inconceivable!”

There is a very memorable speech that Brad Pitt gives as Achilles in the Trojan War cinematic epic, “Troy.”

He speaks on immortality, on how it lies in wait for those who dare to surge beyond fear, beyond despair, beyond the thought of “I cannot do it.”

“Immortality,” he says. “Take it. It’s yours!”

And it appears that the good folk over at KFC seem to have taken this inspirational quest for immortality to heart, launching what initially promised to be one of the most spectacular fastfood innovations known to man: The new KFC Double Down.

This TV commercial inspired me enough to write about it on my food blog some months ago. “At last!” I thought to myself. “A burger that finally understands what it is that us Manly Men need: Protein!”

Here’s how it looks:

And here’s how they described it:
The creation features a dollop of the Colonel’s secret sauce wrapped in a slice of both Pepperjack Cheese and Swiss Cheese, between two slices of bacon and two filets of KFC original recipe chicken that serve as the ‘bread’ of the burger. That’s right – instead of bread, you get breaded chicken. Multiplied by two.

No bread. Just chicken. The unhungry burger for hungry men.

What an amazing concept.

Now, I had been trying my darnedest over the last three days to finally score myself a taste of the KFC Double Down when I heard that KFC had finally decided to offer it to the local Philippine market of strapping, protein-hungry Manly Men such as myself. I confess that my batting average was at 0-for-3; it was sold out across all branches – a fact confirmed via various friends on Twitter to whom I had complained.

And then, I spotted it at KFC along President’s Avenue in BF Homes. It was available. For real.

PhP100 for the a la carte Double Down.

PhP115 inclusive of a beverage.

PhP135 inclusive of a beverage and one Fixin. They suggested coleslaw. I did not disagree.

I did, however, realize that I was a rich man, who happened to have PhP203 in my very luxurious Seiko wallet. And rather than just going Double Down, I decided to go All In.

This is a picture of my custom MDJ Super All In Double Down Gluttony Extravaganza Combo Meal – one KFC Double Down, one regular coleslaw, one regular mashed potatoes, double rice, and a large refreshing glass of Lipton iced tea. That’s the 6 essential Manly Man food groups represented right there.

And so, after months of anticipation, wet dreams, and petition-signing, how did the KFC Double Down actually taste?

In a word: Disappointing.

The chicken patties are literally what you are served in your basic Colonel’s Burger, while the bacon was soggy and almost indiscernible. And I’m not sure what got lost in translation, but the Pepperjack and Swiss cheese promised in KFC’s original advertising copy tasted just like your typical local Eden Cheese Singles.

And most disappointingly, the “Colonel’s Secret Sauce” tasted just like plain old mayo.

But was it filling?

Manly Men don’t demand high artistry in their food; we need substance and size. The KFC Double Down is surprisingly small – despite the multiple Fixins and double rice I accessorized it with, I ended my meal still feeling hungry. It’s no more filling than a standard 1-piece order of fried chicken; I had to get an additional order of Chewy Cheese to satiate my generous appetite. If you have to spend almost PhP300 at KFC to feel full, then it’s probably a sign that you ordered wrong.

Final verdict?

KFC’s Double Down promised to be the immortal deity of glory and goodness on the High Holy Pantheon of Dude Food. It’s no more filling than a 1-piece order of fried chicken – and we all know that no true Manly Man worth his collection of Maxim magazine would be caught dead ordering anything less than two pieces of good, wholesome, healthy KFC.

Give it a shot just to satisfy your curiosity, but don’t expect to make a lifelong habit out of it.

In the quest for immortality, KFC’s Double Down comes up way short. It’s a summer night’s fling rather than a lifetime love.

And we all know that when it comes to love, to commitment, to relationship, real Manly Men like you and me are all about the long view.

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Click here for Part One of MDJ Superstar’s thrilling, purely fictional Manly Man Manifesto adventures as he stood face to face with the unholy army of the Bieber-Gaga cult of teenybopper pop culture!

*****

MDJ Superstar was trapped. He knew there was no escape. He could either help art-direct the fashion pictorial of the freshly-dolled up Fashion Diva Princesses on the gardens facing Bonifacio High Street’s local hell-hole of pink glitter, Club Princess, or he could burn in eternal damnation on the fiery altar of the Cult of Gaga.

“You leave me no choice, foul princesses,” he muttered, as a single perfect tear welled up in his glistening ochre eyes. “With the help of my assistant models, Trixie and Ara, I will elevate you to fashion immortality.”

Off scampered the Fashion Diva Princesses, with MDJ Superstar trudging sadly in their wake. They lined up in the ever-extending ebony shadow of Club Princess, squealing and giggling with nervous eagerness.

The foul pink soldiers of Gaga forming their demonic ranks, with the assistance of professional models Trixie & Ara.

“Alright girls!” exclaimed MDJ Superstar, his fear now swallowed and digested into a more manageable lump of fortitude, “At the count of three, everyone smile, pose, and shout, DIVA!!!”

The girls tossed their be-glittered hair in the wind, with feathered boas whipping ferociously around them like dragon-snakes searching ravenously for their next victim. A pall of anticipation befell them.

MDJ Superstar gathered his breath. In the distance, the shrill call of a lone wolf echoed through a morose sky.

“ONE… TWO… THREE… DIVA!!!”

The assembled ranks of the Underage Frilly Fashion Diva Princesses.

“Will you spare me?” MDJ Superstar intoned, his voice rasping slightly. “Will you allow me to go off to do Appropriately Manly Things such as having my car detailed or downloading scintillating pornography at Flesh Asia Daily 3.0?”

“We shall do no such thing,” squealed the horde of Fashion Diva Princesses. “We shall invite you to partake in some chocolate cake, and possibly even chicken fingers with us at TGIFriday’s, and watch us as we do our fashion walk-off on the High Holy Catwalk of Gaga!”

And so off they dashed to the nearby restaurant, filling the bar area with a throng of pink glitter and giggles.

Zarah is shocked at the ferocious torrent of Fashion Diva Princesses who filled the room with their demonic glitter-gear..

Within, a tall, sombre figure of imposing height towered above the crowd of 7-year old’s, her impassive stare reading into the very nooks and crannies of each of their souls. She was Carisse Escueta, and she knew what it meant to be a Fashion Diva Princess too.

Taking charge: Carisse, the High Holy Priestess of Gaga holds court over the Fashion Diva Princesses.

“Alright Fashion Diva Princesses,” she exclaimed, “Everybody line up on stage and get ready to vamp down the red carpet!”

Getting ready to own the catwalk.

A wild cheer emanated from the assembled ranks of the Diva Fashion Princesses. Catwalks and red carpets were completely familiar territory to them. They had, after all, absorbed every single episode of the last 18 seasons of America’s Next Top Model.

And off they vamped. They ramped, and they stamped. The red carpet was their dominion, and each other’s cheers and giggles were their fire.

“All right Divas,” thundered Carisse once the 19-strong contingent had completed its parade. “Let’s get the birthday girl Bea on stage, and we can have her blow out her candles!”

Getting ready to put out the Fashion Flames burning steadily on the Barbie birthday cake.

And like a gracious duchess bidding thanks to a delegation of nobles, Bea mounted the stage with her beautiful, extremely curvaceous mother, and expressed her heart-felt emotions to her fellow Fashion Diva Princesses.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she purred. “I had so much fun, and hope you all did too!”

And swift as a lightning bolt, it was all over, a shower of warm applause washing over the birthday girl as laser-lights traced constellations around her.

“It was all worth it,” thought MDJ Superstar to himself, nodding with a fresh wave of understanding. “These girls live to diva. Viva la diva!”

Far above him, a single, flawless white dove took flight into the air.

Slowly, it sailed higher and higher into the sky, finally vanishing into a sparkling lake of molten gold as the sun beamed serenely down upon 19 newly-minted Fashion Diva Princesses.

World peace, muttered MDJ Superstar to nobody in particular. It was all about world peace.

The Birthday Girl.

*****

This epic two-part extravaganza is dedicated to two of the most perfect, wonderful, beautiful women in my life – the lovely, talented, and extremely voluptuous Zarah Hernaez, and her wonderfully charming little girl, Bea.

The following is a purely fictional Manly Man Manifesto retelling of the spectacular Fashion Diva party organized by Zarah for the 7th birthday party of her little girl, Bea, at Club Princess on Bonifacio High Street.

*****

“What terrors lie within this festering hellhole lined with glitters and faux fur, and stinking of Melondew and Vanilla?” MDJ Superstar asked himself, as he tentatively nudged open the lime green gates guarding the entrance to the no-man’s-land known as Club Princess.

A lamb about to enter the lion's den.

The intro riff of Justin Bieber‘s “Eenie Meenie“ shattered the air, their Satanic verses casting even more trauma upon MDJ’s already-straining manhood.

“AUGH!!! MY EYES!!!” MDJ screamed, falling to his knees as before him, a parade of fur-trimmed jelly loot bags forming their ranks. They sat menacingly upon the shelves, their gaping jaws lined with the blood of dead glitterkins.

Fur-trimmed lootbags lay in wait, their gaping jaws dripping with the blood of dead glitterkins.

Around him, jewel-colored wigs lined the walls, strange tokens perhaps from the legendary Eastern European War of the Supermodels, in all likelihood ripped from the scalps of Scandinavian fashion models as they lay bleeding to death on leopard-print throw rugs.

MDJ let out an anguished wail, then whirled around in a panicked attempt to escape from the freakish practices surrounding him.

“You cannot leave, Superstar” growled the gaunt, haunted waif of a girl who manifested before him, the electric pink fur of a slaughtered snugglepuff trailing from her claws. “Not until you submit yourself to… the Royal Diva Treatment.”

The Spectral Guardian to Club Princess.

“But I cannot do it,” MDJ Superstar screeched. “My abundant pools of testosterone will not allow myself to be prostituted upon the Shrine of Lady Gaga! Just look at the horrors that are being inflicted upon these helpless little girls! The horror, oh, the horror!”

Another victim of the Cult of Gaga.

“Do not mock the Gaga,” intoned the sombre fleet of little girls who had somehow succeeded in barricading our brave, bemuscled Superstar from escaping the softly-perfumed interiors of Club Princess. “We are preparing for… a fashion pictorial.”

The horde of little girls freshly-subjected to the horrors of the Royal Diva Treatment.

“You win,” MDJ weakly murmured, his knees melting into a useless mess of potpourri. “I am helpless to resist the combined powers of Arch-Demon Bieber and the Hell Queen Gaga. Where do I begin?”

“Well,” the horde of little diva princesses piped up, “you can help us by organizing our poses for our fashion pictorial!”

“Very well,” sighed MDJ Superstar, his once-proud tenor having devolved into a weak slush of resignation. “You can start by taking your sparkly shades and jeweled boas, then lining up by height outside along Bonifacio High Street.”

The diva princesses preparing for their fashion pictorial posedown.

*****

Did MDJ Superstar survive the hellish ordeal about to be set upon him by the joined forces of the Satanic Bieber-Gaga union? Click here for Part Two, the spine-tingling conclusion of our horrific tale of fashion and frou-frou, only here on MDJSuperstar.com!

There are only three things in life that Real Manly Men like you and I need to eat:

Raw meat

Goat entrails

Fried chicken

Bonus points if you somehow manage to concoct yourself a goulash consisting of all three…

But that’s it. No fancy frou-frou salads. No delicate flaky pastries. Just authentic barbarian entrees served with a minimum of flash and frills.

Now, when it comes to item number 3 on my list of Manly Food, I like to keep things simple. Just some basic fried chicken, a side of cole slaw, a mountain of mashed potatoes a triple serving of rice, and a bargeful of gravy to keep things nice and lubricated. KFC does a good job of providing this core Manly Food Item. Certainly well enough that I don’t need to explore other, less masculine options such as Jollibee, McDonald’s, or even *shudder* Popeye’s.

Man, that’s a lot of food.

But every now and then, KFC comes up with something that surprises me and makes my manly throat utter a nervously excited squeak.

I was so intrigued that I just had to cancel various bank-related errands for my Thailand trip, and drop by their President’s Avenue branch for an impromptu pit stop.

I wanted the pure, virginal experience, so I just ordered a basic 2-piece meal, double rice, no sidings. I needed to know how the Chili Lime chicken stood up to my discerning Manly Palate in its most naked form.

The verdict?

It’s exactly how you imagine it to be: their moist, juicy chicken marinated in a lime-infused mix, deep-fried in their crisp golden batter (which is exactly the same as their Hot & Crispy batter, btw), then coated with finely-powdered layers of chili and lime.

It wasn’t spectacular. But it was very good. The lime taste was very subtle – more of an aftertaste, really, but played off the zesty chili very well. It brought back memories of gin-laden nights in the old Peligro bar, and gave an unexpectedly fresh, green twist to a normally very “brown” food in one’s mouth. The chili wasn’t amped up to the levels of the basic Hot & Crispy version though, which I found disappointing. I have high heat tolerance when it comes to food, and I think that even more spice would have been a mind-blowing contrast to the mild citrus undertones.

I also found it quite strange that it was served with a cup of the standard KFC gravy. Purists will say that’s the only true way to enjoy one’s KFC, but I personally found it to be too meaty to complement the fresh south-of-the-border zestiness of the chicken. I think sour cream would have been a perfect side, with a twist of lime perhaps, but that may be too posh for KFC’s marketing model.

It wasn’t spectacular, as I’ve said, but it certainly is a very intriguing play in the mouth. But you do need to run over to KFC soon if you want to get it. In an exclusive one-on-one interview that may or may not have occurred between MDJ Superstar and KFC’s Global Chief Executive Presidential Chairman on Chili Lime Chicken & Miscellaneous Fixins for Developing Markets & Southern Illionois, the Superstar learned that this new offering will be available until the end of 2010 only, and will be re-evaluated as to market feasibility and sustained presence.

KFC’s new Chili Lime chicken is available at the same price as both their Original Recipe and Hot & Crispy variants, and can be mixed-and-matched with them as you please, even in the various Combo Meal iterations.

I couldn’t find a local TV commercial on YouTube (is there even one?) but this version from another Asian market says everything you need to know about this fresh new kid on the Fried Chicken block.

KFC Chili Lime chicken isn’t the greatest chicken dish in the world, but it certainly is worth a taste or two. Manly Men thrive on keeping themselves fresh, revitalized, reinventive, and new*, and when it comes to keeping one’s portfolio of culinary options up-to-date, there are certainly worse ways to go than this zesty new choice from Colonel Sanders’ own kitchen.

3. A Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band handlebar moustache (with the guiding principle being, if something can make Paul McCartney look totally butch, then it must be manly).

4. A marching song.

The first three items have been easy to acquire on MDJ Superstar’s lifelong quest to achieve legendary status as a truly tremendous Titan of Testosterone.

But the fourth, a marching song raging with thunder and fury, sure to set panties dropping and lesser men fleeing as a Manly Man enters a room – that is something that MDJ Superstar was sorely lacking.

Until today, that is.

After years of searching, MDJ Superstar has finally found a song worthy of his raging manhood.

It’s the entrance theme to pro wrestling legend, the Exotic Adrian Street, a man who knew what true dude-itude (the science of dude-ness) was all about.

The lyrics are stellar. Here’s a sample:

I can tear a telephone directory in two
Bending iron bars is something else that I can do
I always pick my teeth with the nearest billiard cueSo imagine what I could do to you

I can crush a housebrick with one movement of my hand
And laugh while I reduce it to a dusty heap of sand
I cut a splendid figure when I make my chest expand
So imagine what I could do to you

Pretty butch, huh?

I performed a live rendition of this for my Marketing colleagues, accompanying myself on the bagpipe as I slowly unfolded interpretative dance steps inspired by Toni Braxton’s immortal classic, “Unbreak My Heart.”

I assure you, by the time I was done, there was not a single dry eye in the room.

Just listen to this, you manly men. And imagine, what I could do to you.

This article is Part Two of the on-going Manly Man Manifesto series. Click here for Part One.

One thing unique to the Culture of Dudeness is the overwhelming impulse to assign an impressive nickname to one’s pee-pee.

Movies are a favourite inspiration, and it isn’t difficult to pick a suggestively macho name from the holy Pantheon of Manly Movies. There’s a formula; just take the title of any movie that features a large, exaggeratedly-muscled, testosterone-laden alpha male or feral beast with obvious genetic gifts in the departments of size, strength, and stamina, and 9 times out of 10 you’ll come up with an appropriate nom de penis sure to drop jaws and soak panties among the underage Cebuana schoolgirl crowd.

There are times, however, when the formula falls short, and you end up with a movie title that should get hearts thumping and hormone levels rising, but instead elicits feelings of shock, repulsion, and, in the absolute worst cases, even pity.

Here are 3 movie titles that fit the formula above, yet should not, under any circumstances, be used as dudespeak for one’s junk.

Shrek. On the surface, this sounds like it should be a terrific pee-pee pseudonym. On the good side, it refers to a gargantuan hulking beast that strikes fear in the heart of English virgins. On the bad side, it refers to a gargantuan hulking beast in an unfortunate shade of seasick green, emits foul odours, and spends an inordinate amount of time immersed in slop and filth.

Gone In 60 Seconds. 0 to 60 in 3.7 seconds is a great metric when referring to the power behind an Italian sportscar. When your speed however stops relating to awesome horsepower and starts suggesting less-than-stellar lasting power among giggling nubile schoolgirls, then you probably need to rethink your naming strategy.

Scarface. By all accounts, this should be a legendary name for a legendary man-sausage. It’s the title of one the most bad-ass dudeflicks of all time. A movie starring a young, edgy Al Pacino snorting copious amounts of cocaine, ruthlessly commanding a massive drug empire, and wielding an earth-pounding arsenal of firepower & explosives sounds like it should be a surefire hit among the weaker sex. When the name, however, simultaneously suggests rotting masses of scabs and stitches, and whose most memorable quote is “Say hello to my little friend,” then one should perhaps set one’s sights lower in scaling the Mount Everest of sexual conquests…

"Say hello to my little friend." - A great bad-ass line to intimidate vicious Cuban assassins with. A less-than-awesome line to get a hook-up going.

In closing, MDJ Superstar says to all dudes to choose wisely, exaggerate judiciously, and always make sure to refer to your penis as an entity independent yet entirely co-equal to yourself.

But always remember to think things through. You never want your latest bedmate to pass on to the rest of her sorority any piece of humiliating gossip of the one unmemorable night that she spent with you, two paper cups of flat beer, and a flaccid, diminutive piece of man-meat that will live on in infamy as thoroughly unimpressive Stuart Little.

This article appears in the launch issue of Manila Bulletin’s super cool new men’s magazine, Garage, coming out sometime between now and February 2017.

Everybody needs to agree on this: real men work out to look sexy.

Once upon a time, being buff served a practical purpose. Buff cavemen slaughtered more stegosaurus for steak-and-bowling nights than scrawny ones. Buff religious figures (see: Samson, 88 Old Testament Road, Rome) put up bigger fights than their daintier counterparts (see: Jesus Christ, 3 Salvation Way, Bethlehem) before dying at the hands of pagans.

But these days, being buff satisfies a less pragmatic but infinitely more pleasurable cause than securing dinosaur steaks or conquering infidel hordes: bagging babes. I’ve learned one thing from the ones I’ve dated. All else being equal, they would rather make out with a sleek, nicely-toned dude than a pudgy man-boobed one.

Sadly, muscles don’t come easily. It’s not uncommon to see a skinny nerd complaining how six months of workouts have failed to produce the slightest change in his physique, except for a mildly uncomfortable hernia. Neither is it unusual to see a chunky slob moaning how despite a daily 8-kilometer jog, he still can’t see his toes without an intricate system of perfectly aligned hand mirrors and a miniature forklift.

Here’s the tragic reality. Just like on our LTO tests, we sometimes need to cheat to get babe-baggingly sexy. This is where fitness supplements come in.

Supplements falls broadly into two categories: mass-builders (which make us Really Big), and mass-reducers (which make us Really Ripped). There is, of course, the third category of anabolic steroids, which make us Really Dead, but seeing how dead men don’t get to bag quite as many babes as live ones do, we will artfully ignore them for now.

First Sexiness Postulate: to get Really Big, muscles need protein to reconstruct themselves. Chicken breasts, tuna, and lean pork seem to be favorites among the monsters I’ve lifted weights with. The problem is that these natural protein-packed choices come with excess baggage like sodium and calories.

Here’s where protein shakes come in. Concentrated protein in powder form with minimal nasties. Brilliant. If Bruce Banner had heard of them, he’d never gone lounging in front of a gamma ray to mutate himself into a permanently roid-raged, green freak.

They don’t taste particularly great though.

Imagine a tall, cold glass filled with a rich, creamy, chocolate froth. Sounds nice? Now imagine accidentally tipping a muddy-tasting ladleful of munggo guisado into it. (That fluttering you hear is the sound of bodybuilders all over the country nodding sadly in agreement.)

Second Sexiness Postulate: getting Really Ripped means burning more calories than are consumed. Since it’s impossible to convince us real men to swear off pizza and sisig, fitness manufacturers instead sell us products called thermogenics, whose function is to throw our metabolic systems into overdrive the Whole Freaking Day.

Here’s how they make you feel.

You’re in an incessant sweat. Your pulse is racing the whole day. I am told that your body is operating two degrees above normal. No wonder bodybuilders are cranky. Their armpits are perpetually damp. Imagine having to walk into a swank Serendra date with wet armpits. There is no way you would be sweetly pleasant in this state.

I suppose that what I am looking for is compassion for bodybuilders, despite their general appearance as a conceited, temperamental bunch.

I ask you this – if you ate nothing but munggo milkshakes, and had persistently wet underarms, wouldn’t you be in a foul mood too? Around us are men who have sacrificed worldly wonders like deep-dish pizzas and frappucinos for a simple, noble vision: to be sexy enough to bag a babe. I say that vision is worth respecting. We have no stegosaurus left to slaughter, no barbarian heretics to slay. A man of muscle needs assurance that he remains relevant and useful to this world.